Nightshade
by WYSIWYG
Summary: A powerful new Soviet weapon, codenamed Nightshade, has been unleashed on the Allied forces, with their only hope resting on a man with his own score to settle.
1. Chapter 1

A/N Well, I haven't written in a while, so I'm trying this new story idea. Harrier, the Baltic is probably not going to continue, but if anyone wants to continue the story I am quite happy for them to do it. E-mail me at Jimmymac666x@hotmail.com. =) Anyway, back to this story, Command and Conquer, all related names, units and ideas are the sole property of Westwood Studios. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery they say, but anyway, read and review, and hopefully…enjoy!

Nightshade

            A lone eagle soared above the warm desert, its wings outstretched in almost Christ like fashion, riding the thermals as its sharp eyes scanned the ground below for its prey, the small rodents that scurried around, hiding from the death that soared the skies above, immune, all powerful, the bringer of death to all those that dare risk scuttling along the exposed ground.

            It spied its prey, small and almost indistinguishable on the ground, running along the sun drenched sands with a frantic pace. It watched for a second, the dipped its wing and dived down. The little desert creature never had a chance, a panicked squeak was the last sound it made as it was picked up and crushed in the eagle's mighty talons, paying the price for losing a game it never had a hope of winning.

            The eagle soared back into the air; eyes peeled once more, scouring the ground with razor sharp vision. Its eyes spied another sight though, one meaningless to it, and sounds too that could even be heard up here, sounds of thunder and pain and flashes of orange and red light that shot up into the desert sky, almost like fiery geysers as they rose dramatically up to the heavens before dying away. The eagle simply turned away, heading east to a less disturbed place…

            "Shit!" Yelled the soldier as he fired off his rifle into the melee below him. The sand sputtered in little thuds around him as the enemy returned fire, missing the last remaining G.I by inches as his own gun clicked as it finished its magazine. He desperately struggled to find a spare clip but his hand found nothing on his belt. His eyes widened in fear as the Russians drew closer, their fire becoming more accurate until a sharp agonising pain cut into the G.I's shoulder. He recoiled from the wound, dropping his rifle, and clutching his now bleeding and useless arm. His hand then moved to his pistol, pulling out the black gun in one last solid act of defiance. He brought the gun and shot indiscriminately at the approaching red shapes that the desert haze turned the Soviets into. He hit one in the head, right in the guy's left eye, sending a spray of red blood out the back of his skull. He fired again, hearing a yell of pain as another of the red shapes went down clutching its leg. Then there was one last bang. The G.I felt something hit his throat before he lost feeling in his body, a numb dullness replacing it as his view slowly turned black. He fell forward onto the floor and died without a sound.

            The Russians surrounded the body. One reached down and removed the man's dog tags. He held the glittering metal up to the sun, reading the name and number slowly, before dropping it back on the body again. Even Russian's admire bravery, and they buried him there, under a cover of sand, and the metal dog tags were left too, held down by a carefully placed rock. Each of the Russians stood looking at the little rise in the sand, before they turned and headed north, away from the resting place of Private Samuel John.   

            The whine of the helicopter's rotor blades nearly drown out the radio in the cockpit, but the pilot received enough information to make a fairly decent landing. The heat rising from the ground made low level flying very risky, but there was a good pilot in the control seat and the wheels touched down without a problem.

            The door on the left side of the Blackhawk was pulled back by a member of the ground crew, and out stepped a high-ranking officer onto the desert sand. His dark eyes surveyed the base around before he took out a pair of sunglasses and put them casually on. Several junior officers came up to him, saluted, and then preceded to inform the recently arrived man of various, almost trivial matters. He was the base's new commander, in charge of a forward attack base barely ten miles from the front lines. The camp served as a command and relay post, field hospital and repair bay, and the hub of all nearby Allied activity. The man lit a cigar as one of the younger officers went on about requesting new radio parts, before dismissing all of them with a flick of his hand.

            The commander was the stereotypical Texan, big and with the build and charm of a grizzly tank. He walked over to the centre of the base, standing beneath a rather thin looking guard tower for some shade. He looked around him again, this time concentrating more on the various little details of the facility. Several IFV's were laying stripped down in the garages and repair bays, a dozen or so mechanics scurrying over them, trying to fix up combat wounds and repair sand damage to the engines and weapon systems. Two huge Chrono Miners trundled past him on their way to an ore field in the north, and a single Chrono Legionnaire sat at the base of a flagpole, idly fiddling with his weapon. There was distant gunfire to the west; the dull thuds shook the ground like small earth tremors. Three huge Grand Cannons, positioned on a ridge about half a mile away, answered in chorus, sending several heavy projectiles back in the direction of the earlier shots.

            The commander took a pair of binoculars and stared out towards the front lines, a faint black line on the horizon. He couldn't see much as the haze disrupted his view, but he could pick up the occasional puff of sand and smoke, and three small bright flashes in the distance where the Grand Cannon's shells landed. The crack of a machine gun started up for a few seconds, and then quickly died down again after a moment or so.

            The commander put his binoculars down, and turned. Then something caught his attention, a sort of weird shimmering in the haze in the corner of his eye. He turned back round, but the haze above the desert had returned to normal. He cautiously brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. Nothing. And yet… The commander was a superb soldier, and he knew when something was not right, to have a sixth sense that could detect things his other facilities couldn't.  He put the binoculars down, and watched with his own eyes.

            Then it appeared again, this time fairly distinctly. The haze was changing direction; it seemed to be being pushed aside, almost like water around the hull of an invisible boat. It wasn't some fluke wind. Experience taught him that.

            And then everything turned to fire. The desert, base and people around the commander burst into flames, he himself felt a searing heat over his body, he fell agonisingly to the ground, with his skin feeling like it was burning. There was a shockwave of a terrible sound, as loud as thunder and made of screams and cries and grinding and screeches. The wind rushed pass his body with the strength of a tornado, blasting him off the ground and throwing him into the base of the guard tower, where he finally lost consciousness.

            When he came to, he found he was alone. The sand entered his wounds, stinging like mad and causing severe pain when he moved. He got up achingly to his feet, and he gasped. The base was destroyed. Entirely and utterly, almost like a nuclear attack apart from the lack of a mushroom cloud overhead. He struggled even to breath; his uniform now just a few charred rags, and all around him lay burnt machinery, blackened corpses and levelled buildings. All around him was a smell of burnt meat, and the commander collapsed on his knees and vomited over the sand. He stayed in that position until the Soviets arrived.

            A world away on a rainy afternoon in Denver, a military car pulled up into the Allies GHQ on the edge the city. Two men exited it, one the driver, and the other a Major, who immediately proceeded up the stone stairs and into the building. He passed several G.I's and a nasty looking guard dog, before arriving at the reception desk. He smiled at the young secretary, who scowled back at him.

            "Name?" She asked distantly.

            "Major Philip John, I'm here to see General McKinney."  

            "One second," she typed something into her computer, "yes, he is expecting you, his office is on the top floor, first on your left from the elevator."

            "Thank you ma'am." Said John, glaring back at the secretary. He entered the elevator alone, and laid back against the side of the cab as it travelled up the floors. He stepped out of the top, and knocked on the first door. He waited a minute, but no answer came, and when he checked the door he discovered he had knocked on the men's bathroom. He looked around, checking no one saw that, and moved discreetly to the next door along, which thankfully was the correct one. He made a mental note to report the secretary. His knock was answered and he entered the office, browsing the pictures on the wall before accepting the General's offer of a chair. A brass model of a Grizzly tank lay on his desk, along with a pile of official looking documents, some lying alone, and others in "top secret" folders. The General leaned back, opening a small bottle of whisky and pouring both himself and his guest a generous amount in a pair of tumblers. John saluted mildly, the General laughed, and returned it.

            "So sir, what was this thing you needed to discuss with me?"

            "Ah, Major, welcome," he passed the Major one of the tumblers, "I have an assignment for you."

            "Well, I assume its tough, difficult and dangerous, otherwise you wouldn't be sharing this."

            "No, you are right," the General sighed heavily, "we've got a tough one alright."

            "Go on."

            "Well," said the General, "its very hard to explain without giving you some back ground info, here." The General passed one of the "top secret" folders to John. He scanned it through. There wasn't much, firstly an IR picture of the sky with a faint red streak across it, then a black and white photo of a charred forest, and lastly a simple intercepted transmission which said _Deploy the Nightshade._ John looked up at the General, whose face was now deep in though, a solemn expression on his face. "Major, I'll explain. Two months ago NORAD received this picture from an observatory in North Dakota. A single object, invisible to the naked eye and radar, passed through our upper atmosphere from space. Its passage through the atmosphere however, heated it up so much that its heat signature could be traced and plotted. Judging by its trajectory and speed we calculated it to land somewhere in Western Siberia. Now, despite the success of the KGB and Yuri's psychic corps, we still have one or two operating contacts in the outer regions of Russia. One of them was able to find and photograph the crash site, which is the photo you have there."

            "What had happened?"

            "We still don't know for sure, firstly we just dismissed it as a large meteorite coming down to earth. But several things were unusual. Firstly, as I've mentioned, the complete lack of the thing's radar signature. Anything big enough to cause that amount of damage when it hit should have lit up our radars like a Christmas tree. Secondly, the Russian military became heavily involved; massive amounts of equipment were poured into the region, normal civilian traffic was halted and many nearby settlements were evacuated. The authorities said that a satellite with a nuclear power generator aboard had crash-landed and they were trying to stop them getting radiation poisoning. Not a bad cover story, but there was no satellite. A few weeks later however, the military pulled out almost instantaneously.

            Then nothing. Until yesterday. A forward listening post picked up that message ten minutes before it went offline. A spy plane found the wreckage of the facility this morning, along with several bases we had lost contact with. The soviets had overrun them with such speed and force it took us totally by surprise. They didn't even get a message out before they were hit. There was only one survivor, one of the base's commanders, horribly burnt and on the verge of death. He seemed to have been driven mad, and we could only get one or two pieces of information of him. Firstly, the attack was conducted instantly with a very powerful weapon that turned practically everything to fire. And secondly, the attacker he saw was invisible and hovering above the ground."

            "What?"

            "Invisible, and it appears capable of suspended flight above the surface."

            "How could he see it if it was invisible?"

            "The answer we got was that he saw it disrupt the haze, which seems weird, but he was adamant in what he said, and he won't take any other suggestion."

            "I see, …" muttered John. He sat silently for a moment, tapping his fingers on the desk, and then he spoke again. "So what is the connection, or is it only a guess?"

            "Kind of an informed guess, we know that several large amounts of top secret equipment was shunted between several sites, the last one sent several large containers to the Soviet occupied states in the south."

            "Hmmm, so, getting back to the thing that crashed…. what do you believe it is?"

            "We have two guesses, either it was a meteorite, made of a new, highly absorbent material, that the Russians have been able to successfully adapt to their own designs…or…"

            "Or?"

            "We have played with the idea of this being a piece of extra terrestrial technology."

            "I understand." There was silence again. "So what is my mission?"

            "Simply, you are to lead a combat scout party into the desert, and find out what Nightshade is…"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Hello again! Well, I'm waiting for more reviews, so I've decided to continue the story on. Enjoy, and R/R!!!!

Nightshade (Part 2) 

            Major Philip John wandered out of his briefing with McKinney, the thought of his mission slowly filling his mind as he walked down the corridor. Many different ideas and scenarios played in his head, each possibility carefully picked apart and looked at, leading to a variety of conclusions. Being the C.O of a frontline SEAL unit made him one of the best soldiers out there; it bought him a lot of respect within the military, but also the hardest missions. His experience was one of the best in the Allied forces, and only a couple of other SEALs and one or two of the European veterans of the first Great War could rival his tactical knowledge and abilities. And this was how he got there, by analysing and thinking through various situations, building up main and contingency plans in his head right from the very first briefing and setting out his thoughts clear in his mind. What others perceived to be immense examples of spontaneous thinking under fire was actually the result of many hours preparation. 

            He was a very clever man, originally destined for a career in academia before deciding to join the Marine Corp. There was something about that way of life, the stability with the occasional adrenaline rush that appealed to him. He passed his officer entry exams with ease, and soon found that he was not to be disappointed. His career had been quite exceptional, with successive promotions coming at a lightning rate, particularly during the first months of the war when most of the command structure was wiped out in the initial Soviet invasion. Now, he was the most prized man in this operational theatre, his value on the battlefield only surpassed by the legendary Tanya. They had been assigned together once, he remembered her fiery temper from the first minute, on a mission to intercept and destroy several Russian convoys. The Soviets sprung an ambush on their team, and only he and her escaped. The Soviets pursued them, and trapped them on the edge of a canyon.

            There, they held their ground, using the terrain to their advantage, and successfully stopped the enemy advancing towards them. They survived for ten hours before being airlifted out under the cover of darkness. It was reckoned that they had killed nearly 400 Russian soldiers between them in that time. John got another medal for it, and a friendly sort of rivalry began between them. John smiled as she remembered watching her walk away, finding her feminine and yet powerful movements particularly sexy.

            Then there was another person who came into John's thought train, his younger brother, Samuel, an enthusiastic, energetic person who entered the army on the day of the invasion. The older John watched his younger sibling's career with interest, and occasionally used his influence to aid him when times got a bit rough. One thing for sure though, Philip John was very proud of his brother, and he was closer to him than anyone else.

            When his mind returned to the present, he found himself back down in the first floor hallway heading back towards the reception desk. His heavy footsteps echoed in the now deserted room, and he headed automatically for the reinforced glass doors at the front of the building. Halfway there, he stopped momentarily. He looked around, and deciding it was one of his last opportunities to sample civilisation before going out on a mission again, went over to the coffee machine and got a warm drink. He picked up the cup and started slowly sipping at its contents, his hands holding the cup so that the heat coming off the cup warmed them. He felt the cold night air coming in from outside, and pulled his coat tighter. For some reason he was always sensitive to the cold, a fact that annoyed him deeply. He continued to slowly sip his drink as his thoughts once again returned to his mission.

            A loud set of footsteps suddenly burst into the room, cutting the silence like a knife. John looked up to see a red faced Sergeant running towards him. John put his coffee down as the soldier halted frantically in front of him, clutching a piece of paper to his chest as he began to start gasping for air. John waited a moment for the Sergeant to catch his breath, and then watched him finally compose himself enough to deliver his message. He saluted John, before muttering something and passing the Major a piece of paper. John scanned it quickly, then gasped in shock, screwing the note up in his hand as he fingers clawed in an automatic reaction. His breathing suddenly became very fast, his whole body shaking as he straightened the paper again. He gulped loudly as he slowly and carefully reread the words.

            _Major Philip Hammond John,_

_                                                            As your brother's chosen next of kin it is my sad and unfortunate duty to report that _Private (First Class) Samuel Raymond John _has been confirmed as being Killed in Action whilst engaged in combat with enemy forces. He died bravely in firefight again numerically superior Russian forces. He and his patrol fought to the last man and bullet before finally succumbing, and this is as truer a representation of his character as I can ever describe. He was a brave, courageous, patriotic soldier, who always placed his life on the line for his fellow soldiers and innocent civilians alike. He was an example to our men, and I have no qualms in calling him a true American hero, and few men deserve that title more than him. _

_            His personal effects and belongings have been sent to your parent's residence as per his instructions._

_                                                                                                Yours regrettably,_

Colonel Colin Maxsmith, C.O 112th Battalion.

            Major John leaned back against the wall, a terrible numbness overcoming his body as he once again reread the letter, trying to find some other meaning in those final words. His body broke into a cold sweat, every emotion forced out by an overwhelming feeling of shock. No grief, no anger entered his mind. He seemed almost to stop moving at all for a few minutes, only the irregular rising of his chest betraying the fact he was alive. He mouth hung open slightly, his eyes staring, unblinking, at the piece of paper in front of him. The Sergeant looked nervously at the floor.

            Then a feeling of anger did flow, drowning every nerve and artery in the Major's body, his teeth gritted, his eyes bulged, he rose up, clenching his fists and stamping his feet down heavily on the floor. He turned and punched the wall, smashing an inch of plaster and brick from it, and then stared at his now blood stained knuckles, then he turned again, and walked slowly out to his car, the letter held tightly in one hand. The rain started up again as he walked out, hiding the tears that started to run down John's cheeks. He stopped just in front of his car, turned his face to the heavens, the water running down his face and uniform as he yelled "BASTARDS!!!" into the night sky above.

Okay, now, the action will start to get moving in the next chapter, I promise. R&R please!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Here is the next part. The story begins in full next time, but I feel I need to introduce all the characters properly first. =S

Nightshade (Part 3)

            John didn't sleep much that night. He lay awake in his armchair, a long forgotten beer in his hand and some stupid irrelevant show on TV, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of memories past, trying to recall everything about his brother so that nothing would be forgotten. Insignificant memories now seemed more precious than gold. He had lost his ability to feel any emotion, and now the world outside this room seemed unimportant. There was something about his younger sibling's death that seemed almost to be a final straw, the last amount of pain and suffering he could handle. He had lost close friends before, but their death's felt different, they only seemed to strengthen his resolve. Now, he felt like nothing around him concerned him anymore. The war, his country, his fellow citizens were now regarded as an irrelevance by him. He sighed, wondering if he felt this way because he was fighting to protect his younger brother. For the first time in his life John questioned the reasons why he did fight, whether the sacrifices and the suffering he went through were really worth it…

            Then he got up suddenly, the beer cans and chip bags around him flying through the air as he rose off the chair. He walked through to the bathroom, and gazed into the mirror on the medical cabinet. He did not recognise the man staring back at him. The person in the mirror seemed tired, forlorn, and defeated. John hadn't looked in the mirror for along time, and the image made his eyes grow large in surprise. Then he began to realise that that face in the mirror was his own. John wondered whether his old friends would recognise him now. He had fought so many battles, destroyed so many lives, he just thought about whether it was all worth it…

            And then he looked up again. The face was the same, and now he noticed the dark patches under his eyes. He yawned loudly, scratched his sides, and decided to head off to bed. He lay down on top of the sheets for a bit, gazing out of the skylight into the starlit night above. He could hear a distant roar of guns, a sound so familiar to him, and yet now seemed to haunt the air above like an unseen ghost. He rolled over and slowly fell to sleep. 

            John woke up the next morning feeling slightly better. Feeling refreshed, his thoughts became clearer and less pessimistic. He decided not to try and think too much about why he did fight. He reasoned that maybe as a soldier it wasn't his place to decide what was worth fighting for in the end. Maybe he had lost his own point in fighting, but there were still others, with their own reasons to carry on, that were relying on him. It would be better to get up and get on with it, and see where his life took him. Who knows, maybe he would find another reason to fight, but he would only get worse by just staying here. Even to him, the prospect of the military blockade was less preferable to the battlefield. This thought seemed to finally spur him into action. He got up out of bed and got dressed. He took another glance in the mirror; and he seemed to look better now, more energetic and less forlorn than before, but whether this was an actual change or just due to the increased light he couldn't decide.

            He strode out of his house with a newfound determination, his face locked in grim concentration as he got into his car and drove towards the base. Usually, he turned the radio on for the news, but he didn't bother today. It would be the same bad news as yesterday and the day before, and it would be the same tomorrow. He found the anger that he felt in the moment he had received the letter returning to him now. Not grief or mourning, but cold, calculated hate for everything associated with those who had killed his brother now set in. His fingers gripped the wheel hard, and he felt his face become more and more expressionless. They were going to pay heavily, thought John; they were going pay heavily indeed. 

            He reached the entrance of the base. He waited as the guards quickly checked his ID and scanned his vehicle. The soldier checking his ID cards gave John a cheery "Good morning". John just stared back at the man, and the soldier looked crestfallen as he backed away to let the car through. He reached the parking lot and got out. He walked straight through the main building; cutting off the guardsman's "Morning Sir" in mid sentence as he walked straight passed him. He walked quickly down the corridors, ignoring everyone else and scowling at anyone who got in his way. He reached the door he needed, the office of Colonel Rayvon, his main briefing and equipment officer. He knocked loudly, waited for a response, and walked straight in when he heard "Enter" from inside. The Colonel rose from his seat, John saluted, and he replied in earnest. The Colonel offered John a seat before sitting down himself. John stood for a moment, before deciding to take the Colonel's offer, and sat down quickly. He stared over the desk at Rayvon, who seemed to be a little disturbed by this but nevertheless carried on.

            "Firstly Major, I want to offer my condolences on your brother's death." John hadn't expected it. He muttered his reply.

            "It seems news travel's fast." Rayvon looked slightly unsettled.

            "Hmmm," he seemed to be contemplating what to say. "I suppose it is none of my business, but it does raise an important question." John looked at him. "You do know how command look at the recently bereaved…" John nodded, before turning his head up to look at the ceiling.

            "Well, Colonel, what do you think?"

            "Phil, I know how good a soldier you are. If you believe you can effectively command this mission then I will trust you on that. But please think long and carefully. This is a very difficult and a very important mission. You have to be confident that you can lead it, a lot of people will be relying on you." John turned his back down, and nodded again. He rested his chin on one of his hands. He thought about the Colonel's words, would he be able to lead a combat party the way he was feeling now? But then again he was the best there was, and this mission had to succeed. He had longed for a mission like this, one where he could for once actually change the face of the war rather than simply be engaged in a conflict of attrition. He was a born soldier, this was what he did best of all. He just hoped that he could control his anger; he felt he could, but he had never felt like this going into combat. But something else entered his mind too; a feeling of schoolboy heroics, that sudden lust for fame and respect that only this mission could give him. He really hated not having a rational mind sometimes. His eyes turned up to stare at the Colonel once more.

            "Colonel, I feel I can lead this mission. I don't think I could risk someone else's life doing what I should be doing…"

            "You sure Major?"

            "Yes."

            "Then I will leave it at that. Right, back to business. Your deployment briefing." He got out a large map and spread it out onto the desk in front of him. "Insertion is by Blackhawk helicopter at dawn, here at 3345-6776. It's an old town, named Rigsby, evacuated before the Soviets took it over. Its about twenty clicks behind the frontline here." Rayvon ran a finger down a transparent red line that weaved down across the map. "It has been chosen for two things. Firstly, it's a fairly defensible position, with many buildings to provide cover and several escape routes. Secondly, it is only ten miles from the last base to be hit, so it will be a comparatively easy trip to get to the area necessary. What happens from there, however, is entirely up to you and your soldiers. There are several Soviet garrisons in the area, so stay low unless you want the area flooded in Commies. We haven't a clue where Nightshade operates from, and we don't know where it is now. It may operate from one of the Soviet bases or the Russians may have another undiscovered base somewhere else. Whatever and wherever it is, it is your job to find it."

            "Just find it?"

            "Nightshade has proven its viability as an extremely effective combat system. It can wipe out bases without a problem and I assume it wouldn't have much difficulty in dealing with a five-man patrol. We can only decide how to sort out the problem when we know what it is we are fighting against."

            "I see, so, its just a five man team?"

            "We can't afford to send anymore. This is an extremely risky mission a long way behind enemy lines with no chance of retrieval until the mission is completed. We don't have a clue what the Russian's are up to, and I think we are all going to get a few surprises before this job has been done."

            "So do I," muttered John, drumming his fingers on the map. "So who's on my team?"

            "The best we can find." Said Rayvon. He opened a drawer and pulled out four sealed envelopes. He put them on the desk and opened the first one. "First Lieutenant Randall MacIntyre, age 24, an explosive expert with a good shot and superb hand-to-hand fighting skills to boot. He's in the SEALs as well, so you shouldn't have too much of a problem with him." John nodded.

            "Sounds good…who else?" Rayvon opened the second envelope. 

            "Lieutenant Michael Thornycroft, a Brit if you couldn't guess, age 33, an excellent sniper and veteran of the first war. He is probably the best sharpshooter we have left. As you can imagine, the Brits weren't too happy to let him go, but they eventually changed their minds and we got him on the team. Supposedly his eyesight is better than most people's vision with a set of binoculars, you find out for yourself." John nodded. Rayvon got the next envelope. "Your next guy is… Corporal James Peterson, Army Rangers. A tactical field expert, with a bit of knowledge of just about everything you could possibly imagine. He is also very efficient with computers, which may prove useful."

            "Hmmm," sighed John, folding his arms, "and lastly?"

            "Lastly…Captain Jean Paul Micou. French, 27, an expert scout, also has superb language skills too should you need them. He was a former long distance runner before joining up. His father is in command of all the European forces in North America, so try not to lose him." John scowled.

            "Sounds pretty good." He said. "The best we can put together?"

            "Without a doubt."

            "Okay, hmmm, so when do we head out?"

            "At 500 tomorrow, which gives you…20 hours I'd say to get ready. You team is arriving soon, I'll go out and introduce when they arrive. Now, I would go and get anything you need to sort out done, because you will need to a bit of training with your team before you set out."

            "I see," said John again, who was now looking at his own watch. He glanced back up at Rayvon, who nodded. "Well, like you said, things need doing, I'll see you later on sir." John saluted. Rayvon returned the salute.

            "Ill catch you later, goodbye Major." John stood up, and dismissed himself. He walked back out onto the corridor, removing his cap and cleaning the badge with his finger. "Well," he thought, "this is it."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Isn't this fun? Yes, it is! Lol, R/R please. I apologise for any bad accents, I am English after all, and the French was done using an artificial translator so if it sounds stupid it's not my fault okay?

Nightshade 4 

            A faint orange glow filled the eastern sky as the Blackhawk helicopter flew through the valleys and hills towards its destination, its dark, shark like body rising and falling with the land as it hugged the ground to avoid the Russian's prying radars. To any observer it would like a gigantic insect following the contours of some mighty sleeping beast, its minigun protruding out the front like a metallic sting. The pilots in the helicopter's glazed cockpit were obviously skilled, handling the machine delicately and gracefully whilst flying flat out only a few feet off the ground. 

            In the amour-lined rear cabin, however, the helicopter's flight was practically nothing to what the five men sitting there, in full desert battle kit, were about to undertake. This was Major John's combat squad, the finest group of Allied soldiers in the North American theatre. All five of them were veterans, experienced and deadly soldiers who could on their own terms destroy an army. They had had an extensive training session together, and John couldn't help but smile at Rayvon's team choice, he had not lied about them being the best the West could offer. 

            MacIntyre proved surprisingly reclusive. His ability with a gun was outstanding, he could wield his rifle like an extension on his forearm, but he didn't talk much. He seemed mysterious, only answering questions and never opening the conversation. He was taller than John, or anyone for that matter, standing at an impressive 6"9, and just watching him look down at you without saying a word was quite unsettling even for the Major himself.  

            Thornycroft was more talkative, and seemed more relaxed than the others. His accent was slightly clipped and he had the typical British sense of humour, the irony in his comments was often misinterpreted or missed completely. His aim was unbelievable, scoring 100% hit rates at a distance of 1400m, when John himself finding it lucky just to score a single lethal hit. He always carried two guns. One was an old Enfield .308; his weapon in the last war, which Thornycroft said was the most reliable and accurate gun he had ever fired. His other one, which he often carried but very rarely used, was a huge Accuracy International AW .50, a 15kg rifle that Thornycroft boasted he could stop a Rhino with.

            Peterson was quite short, though remarkably tough. In the gym he floored everyone else, and in the field exercises his ability to track a target would have embarrassed guard dogs. He knew how to survive behind enemy lines better than anyone, and he had a remarkable ability to just disappear out of sight when they weren't looking for him. He was a nice guy, cheerful and optimistic, but also superbly professional, obeying orders to the letter without any hesitation. 

            Micou was interesting. His English was good, but he often slipped between that language and his native French, resulting in some almost comical mix-ups. He had a very philosophical view on life, and often went about trying to find as many meanings as possible from what the others said. He moved quickly, he could do a hundred metres in eleven seconds even with his battle gear on. However, he was bugged by who his father was, and felt insecure as though his place on this mission was given to him by his father's connections rather than his actual abilities. John thought differently though. Micou was a superb and reliable soldier, even if he was difficult to understand at times.

            John wondered what the others thought of him, as he sat back against the side of the cabin. He had tried to give the impression of a cool professional, but he had a feeling that the others may have an inkling of something not being quite right with him, something that he was hiding. But it didn't seem to bother them, or him for that matter, they were all soldiers, and they were all out here to do a job, personal secrets had little place on the battlefield. 

            For now, nobody spoke, each man quietly preparing for battle in the way they knew how. John himself merely tapped his fingers on his rifle butt, trying not to think about the off too much. He was always impatient to go into battle, he felt vulnerable in a helicopter and always desperately wanted to get into a position where he could shoot back if need be. Thornycroft on the other hand, examined his rifle again, staring down the barrel to make sure the sights were all lined up. He adjusted the zoom on top of the gun, checked the safety, and removed and then reattached the gun's magazine. His face had turned to one of solemn determination, the actions with the gun seemed automatic to him. He clutched his rifle hard when he finished, before looking at John and nodding slightly.

            John nodded back, before looking across at Peterson, who seemed to be holding a crucifix in his hand and muttering a prayer under his breath. He kept his eyes closed, a single drop of sweat trickled down across his forehead as his wordlessly mouthed his promises to god. Next to him, Micou seemed simply passive and quiet; he just stared at the wall opposite, his eyes focusing on some empty point of space. He appeared to be concentrating hard. John remembered Micou telling him about his airsickness, and the only way he could stop vomiting all over the place was by thinking about somewhere else and concentrating on that particular place. John decided it was best not to disturb him.

            Then there was MacIntyre, more distant than ever, and now appeared to looking out the cabin window out onto the desert landscape outside. His eyes blinked incessantly at the rapidly increasing sunlight, and John guessed that they would soon be arriving at their drop off point as he turned round and looked at the rim of red light that was the morning sun slowly rising over the desert horizon. He could already feel the temperature increasing, and he took a big gulp as a crackling voice over the intercom announced that it was 60 seconds before they touched down. John sat for a second, and then decided to speak.

            "Well men, this is it, this is what we have been training for. This mission is the most important one any of us has undertaken, good luck, and Godspeed guys!" He felt his stomach lurch as the helicopter rapidly decelerated and began to descend. He grabbed his rifle fully and undid his harness. The other guys did the same, each one rising with a mixed expression of readiness and expectation. The Blackhawk stopped moving for a second, hovering a couple of feet in the air as it's pilots made sure the area around was safe. Then they lowered it to the ground, each wheel making a small thud before it sunk into a couple of inches of the sand below.

            "All clear" yelled the voice from the intercom, and John stepped forward and opened the hatch. He brought his gun up as he crouched down, staring at the landscape beyond for any hidden enemies. When he was sure it was clear, he gave a silent hand signal to the others, who then in military fashioned jumped out onto the sand and ran towards some nearby cover. They did this one at a time, the first man, MacIntyre, reaching the outcrop and setting up a defensive position. Then Thornycroft followed, hauling his large kitbag behind him as he sped across the sand and into the rocks to join MacIntyre. He bought his rifle up to his shoulder and scanned the area with its ocular sight. He gave a thumbs up sign to John, who then signalled for Micou to join them. The Frenchman jumped out and made the distance in an amazingly short time considering the load he was carrying, and he was soon in the outcrop with MacIntyre and Thornycroft. Then Peterson left the chopper, his rifle trained as he marched across. The man always struck John as paranoid, and he never took risks. In times like this that wasn't always a bad thing.

            Soon enough, Peterson joined the other three within the rock cover, and John himself parted the helicopter. He crouched for a second, checking the area was clear, and then swiftly joined the other soldiers. As soon as he was within the rocks the Blackhawk took off again, the huge downdraft throwing large amounts of sand in all directions, forcing the team to cover their eyes as the helicopter rose up into the air and pulled away towards the Northeast. It rose to around fifty feet, turned and completed a single pass above the clearing before heading off again in its original direction.

            The men waited for the Blackhawk to disappear beyond the horizon before doing anything. They surveyed the surrounding area once more, checking for curious enemies that may have heard the chopper. They could see none, and so they turned to one another and started to assess the situation.

            "Well," began John, "we've landed okay, and it doesn't appear that the enemy has spotted us, we hope anyway." Peterson looked nervously around; in fact most of the men made one or two furtive glances behind them. Their outcrop of rocks was positioned on a small knoll, giving them a good view of the surrounding area. A road ran from West to East about a hundred yards or so to the south, a thin strip of black asphalt spread out over the pastel sand, with a bridge over a ravine about half a kilometre from where the men were standing. Several deserted and burnt out buildings and vehicles were spread out over the flat sands, but there was no sign of anything moving apart from a haggard looking dog sniffing the blackened remains of an IFV just before the bridge over the ravine.

            "We better get moving," muttered Peterson, "they'll have patrols out, and it doesn't take a genius to spot where a helicop…" He was interrupted by the echoing thud of an explosion. It seemed to come from the North. The men all looked at each other. "Shit."

            "Do you think that was the chopper?" Asked Thornycroft nervously, bringing his rifle up to a firing position as his eyes scanned the area surrounding them.

            "I think so," Replied John, who also readied his gun, "but we can't break radio silence to find out. We need to get out of here, where there's explosions there are soldiers, and I doubt they would be Allied ones around here." Peterson pulled out his map and started tracing a route with his finger.

            "Right," he began, his voice slightly shaky, "Rigsby is three clicks West of here, down along that highway and just beyond those hills in the distance. We will have to use the road bridge, and that could put us in a vulnerable spot should the Reds catch up with us. I suggest that we trail the road, either a hundred yards north or south of it. Unfortunately its flat out there and we won't have much cover unless we lie down." He looked up at John.

            "Very well," replied the Major, looking cautiously in the direction of the explosion. "Its as good a plan as any. We need to get out of here, that's for sure. Okay men, you heard the guy, lets move!" And sure enough the five men carefully left the outcrop, their eyes and ears primed, trying to discern any hostile site or sound from the dusty and forlorn backdrop. They marched down from their drop off point, and reached an old power substation that had been hit by the heavy 2000lb bombs that the Kirov airships used, without being seen, stopping for a second, and then preceded as planned to shadow the road to Rigsby.  

            They marched quickly, occasionally turning round for a second to check the road, and all eyes constantly changed direction. Every random noise was met by a training of guns, and weird shapes in the desert haze constantly forced the patrol to stop. They made slow progress, taking a good fifteen minutes to reach the burnt out IFV. The dog has long since vanished, and the men too turned and avoided the wreckage when the wind caught the badly charred arm of a dead crewman and let it fall out of the upturned hatch. There was something ominous about the way it slowly creaked in the wind that sent a chill down the men's spines. John swallowed loudly, his hands gripping the gun tightly. The desert was too warm even at this time of day, and as they passed over the bridge he could feel several beads of sweat slowly channelling their way down his back.

            But all of them were relieved at the lack of any Soviets. The sun gradually rose through the morning sky as the patrol became more accustomed to the searing heat and weird desert phenomena. Little noises stopped halting them and the weird shadows now bought little more attention than a quick gaze. But the men still had their guard up. This was the enemy's territory and it was no place to relax their guard.

            After another kilometre had been travelled they started to ascend the hills that hid Rigsby. They passed six badly damaged and abandoned Grizzlies, their dented and smashed cannons aimed at four similarly wrecked Rhinos a mile or so to the South. As they passed the last one (whose turret had been completely blown off by a direct hit), Micou suddenly raised his hand and told everyone to stop.

            "What is it?" Asked John, turning round.

            "Listen, monsieur." He whispered. Everybody stopped moving and trained their ears. At first John could hear nothing, and then he heard it. A low growling noise, barely audible, the sound of a distant engine chugging its way towards them. He looked at his men who nodded in agreement as they too understood would the noise meant.

            "Crap" muttered John. "Right, behind the Grizzly, quickly!" The team obeyed instantly and within a second they were all crouched behind the turretless wreck. John tapped Thornycroft on the shoulder. "Take a look to the East, tell me what you see." Thornycroft nodded and gently stood up, resting his rifle on the tanks hull. He stared down the road through his scope, looking for their pursuers through the haze. Then he saw them, at the head of a trail of dust, coming up towards their original landing point.

            "I've got them," he whispered to John. "One…two…err…three…yeah, three Flak tracks, heading up towards us pretty fast. They just are passing the drop off zone now."

            "Shit, they'll spot us as soon as they get here, any ideas?" John muttered back, his fingers tapping on the steel hull of the Grizzly. To his surprise Thornycroft turned round and grinned at him.

            "Just leave this to me sir." He turned his head back round towards the incoming Flak tracks, and brought the scope up to his eye again. His thumb released the firing lock and he breathed in deeply. John watched him in anticipation, and decided to take a look for himself. He took his binoculars and peered over the edge of the Grizzly's hull. He watched them come closer, past the IFV and had nearly arrived at the bridge. He could hear Thornycroft muttering something, urging the enemy to come closer.

            The Brit waited till the first Flak track drove onto the bridge itself, and then he fired. The bullet whistled through the air and took out one of the Flack track's tyres, sending black rubber everywhere. Its driver was taken by total surprise and lost control of the vehicle. It hit the side of the bridge, turned over, and landed with a thud in the middle of the road. The second Flak track fared worse. Its driver didn't brake in time and it hit the first Flack track head-on as Thornycroft hit the first vehicle's now exposed fuel tank. Both trucks were flung clean into the air by the explosion, red and black metal flying off in a thousand directions. The third truck stopped just before reaching the start of the bridge. The driver opened his door but Thornycroft put his third round through the Russian's neck. He toppled out the door and fell clumsily and bloodily onto the hard asphalt below.

            Then the rear door opened, and three panicking conscripts jumped out. They ran from the vehicle, firing wildly at their unseen attacker. Thornycroft put a bullet in each of their skulls, staining the sand behind them scarlet red. When the last one hit the floor, Thornycroft lifted his gun and released the now empty magazine. He quickly replaced it and aimed his rifle again, but the only thing moving now were the flames dancing over the wreckage of the first two Flak tracks and the open rear door of the third swinging forlornly in the wind. Thornycroft put down his rifle again and nodded at John.

            "All clear sir," he said, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. John looked at him in amazement.

            "You're good at this…." John said, looking again at the three distant, now derelict vehicles.

            "I'm the best sir, that's why we are all here, because we are the best." Thornycroft grinned. John smiled back. 

            "Yeah, we all are…I hope so anyway. Come on men," he called to the others. "Lets get moving…they know how serious we are now."


End file.
